Things you should say when you meet a white person.
much white are you?
2: I’m part white my self, you know.
3: I learned all your peoples ways in the boy scouts.
4: My great great grandmother wa s full blooded white american princess.
5: Funny you dont look white.
6: I’m not racist my best friend is white.
7: Do you live in a covered wagon?
8: What’s the meaning behind the square dance.
9: Can I touch your neck beard?
10: Hey can I take a picture?
“Do you see him?” you
asked your best friend looking for Jai Courtney in the crowd of people. You and your best friend had VIP tickets to
hang out with the Suicide Squad cast at SDCC. You were excited to meet Jai and
your best friend Rebecca wanted to meet Jared Leto. You spotted Jai surrounded
by a crowd of people. He was easy to spot as he was taller than all the people
surrounding him. He was smiling laughing, taking selfies and signing
autographs. Rebecca squeezed your arm.
I was reading the post about touching your vagina to somebody's beard and without even scrolling down, I imagined you running and jumping on Rich, headlocking him with your legs just so you can touch his beard with your vagina and be like I have done everything now
It’s hot. Not the average California consistency but fucking scorching. Stiles’ sweat is sweating if that puts anything into prospective - it is the least attractive thing, well, besides that one time he tried to demonstrate a proper blow job on a cucumber; that resulted in a SnapChat hell.
Yeah, so. Anyways. That’s why he’s standing in the frozen foods aisle with one of the doors wide open pretending to shove around a box of frost bitten pizza every time someone strolls by. Thank god Beacon Hills Grocery is a rinky-dink, East Bum Fuck kinda store, they don’t have security cameras. Which means no announcements for scrawny idiots to step away from the waves of cool air pumping past the glass doors.
Stiles presses his head to the cool surface, happens to let out a long breath that fogs the glass - you know, smiley face drawing fog - when he catches sight of this guy. This really really unforgettable guy.
Deja vu hits Stiles like a slap to the face. He lets the freezer door click shut, stands aimlessly in the middle of the aisle and just watches the stranger start to pass with his brows knit and his jaw hanging slack. Stiles presses his tongue to the back of his teeth to keep from saying anything fucking stupid like, “can I touch your beard?” or, “I love you.” The usual things you say to men in grocery stores.
It’s just…Really Really Unforgettable Guy is somehow intangible, and that feels backwards. Stiles’ fingers are itching to curl into the strangers belt loops, his arms aching to wrap around what Stiles assumes is a sculpted torso.
“Dude, hi,” Stiles is spitting out before he can stop himself. He puts a hand on the strangers chest to halt him, cants his head like an intrigued puppy before continuing, “okay, that was all I had. Hi. And also sorry for touching. Can I touch though? Like, are random people allowed to touch? They shouldn’t be. I don’t…okay. You know what, actually, carry on.”
Maybe there’s tape on sale he can spread across his mouth.